


Live, and Wonder Why

by Solemini (CyanHorne)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Total Party Kill, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Coping, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanHorne/pseuds/Solemini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which an attempted fight against the ancient white dragon goes very, very wrong, leaving Percy and Vex to cope with being left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“He dies and not you, and you feel guilty, because you’re glad he died and not you. **Soldiers live, and wonder why.** ”  
– Glenn Cook, _The Books of Glittering Snow: Soldiers Live_

* * *

A nightmare. This is a nightmare, one Percy knows all too well.

Here is the barren trail made slick with melting snow. Here is the bitter bite of wind, growing all the more frigid in twilight. Here is the distant shout of the hunting party, the death of higher reasoning in a desperate need to survive. Here is the instinct that chants in his mind:  _flee, run, hide, live,_ drowning out everything but his own pounding heart and the soft footsteps that echo it from mere seconds behind.

Yes, Percy knows all this, which is why he knows what’s coming even before the _snap_ of distant bowstrings echoes through the trees. An errant shot slices his cheek. Another clips his shoulder. Three more strike the trunks of nearby trees.

The rest find their mark. From behind: a series of awful, sickening wet thumps. And a scream.

He clears another ten steps before it registers. He lurches to stop. Turns. And sees her fall.

Back arched. Limbs twisted. Dark hair wild, its braid torn to shreds. Arrows jut from her shoulders like angel’s wings. They carry her forward. Then down.

There’s no air left in his lungs to cry. Yet, as she hits the ground, her name wrenches into a strangled gasp.

“Vex’ahlia!” 

 

A nightmare. This is a nightmare, but for once it’s no dream. The pain in Percy’s broken ribs, in his burning eyes and clipped shoulder, make that clear.

He puts it to use, pounding a fist into the raw, bruised meat of his side. If this were a dream, he would run. He would have no choice. His feet would carry him away, force him to follow the cowardice of his past. But this is not a dream, and he won’t run. Not this time. Not alone. Not without her.

Vex’ahlia still breathes – thank every god – but it’s shallow and weak and she doesn’t respond when he shakes her. Her skin, what little he finds between armor and fur, is bitter cold. A product of the winter night? Or death's first creeping claim?

Percy’s no medic, but he knows arrows. Two of the five come easily loose. The rest hold fast and he knows better than to force them, but they also can’t stay forever and he has no time. So instead, he breaks the shafts. They splinter easily between his fists, like kindling. Like trust. Like Keyleth’s staff and Scanlan’s bones.

Another punch to his side brings Percy back into the moment, to the arrows and Vex and applying pressure to every wound he can. He has only two hands, it can’t be enough. But it has to be. Their pursuers are catching up, their voices growing louder. He has to time this right or they’re both dead.

Staying low, he drags Vex a few desperate feet to the base of the nearest tree. Shadows and footsteps close in as he lays across her, squeezing them into the smallest possible space while keeping his hands to the worst of her wounds. Blood bubbles through his fingers, filling the space between them with coppery wet perfume. 

Percy chokes down memories and the urge to gag. Eyes closed, teeth clenched, he blocks out everything except their pursuers’ pounding steps. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet…

_Now._

Smoke billows from his palms, swallowing them both in the illusion of a snowbank. Any other time, in any other place, this wouldn’t work. But their pursuers are nearly all human and night has fallen fast. Between the dark and their own frantic desperation, the hunting party sprints right past without so much as a pause.

Percy holds the illusion as long as he can. He pours smoke and desperation into repeated castings, drains his weak magic to the last drop. There’s an instant, after it fades, when he expects to be run through. He covers Vex and prays that if he takes the blow they’ll call it a done job and leave her be.

But the attack – by some trick of luck or fate – never comes.

 

It takes too long, much too long, for Percy to move. Between the dizziness of spent magic and his own bone-deep exhaustion, it feels like hours. Yet he finds, when he lifts his head at last, that the setting sun has barely moved. The hunters have not returned. Yet.

Beneath him, despite everything, despite the wounds in her back and the blood on his hands, Vex’ahlia lives.

The relief that shudders through him with her soft and shallow breath is nearly enough to kill Percy where he kneels. He allows himself a moment – only a moment – to rest his weight on his arms and thank Sarenrae, or Pelor, or the Raven Queen, or _whomever_ , for this smallest of blessings, that he is not once again alone.

Then he gets to work, before either the guilt or the hunters can catch them.

Dropping the heavy gear from his back is like shedding a second skin, complete with the mix of pain and respite it provides his broken ribs. He fetches a leather-working knife from his tinkering kit, pushes the Scanlan-like quips into the back of his mind, and leans over the unconscious Vex.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, before slicing through armor and skin alike to dig the arrowheads out of her wounds. It’s bloody, awful work made worse by the groans and whimpers she makes with each new cut.

He works quick, keeping her suffering to a minimum. The broken bolts are tossed aside, lost in the dark along with his blood-stained gloves. Once the mess is finally done, he wraps Vex’ahlia in his coat, pulling it tight to apply an even pressure across her entire back.

None of it’s pretty, but it works. After a last few shuddering gasps, Vex eases into peaceful stability. She sleeps.

Percy washes his hands in snow, ignoring how his fingertips go numb. Night has truly fallen now. The moon has yet to rise. He can no longer hear or see their pursuers, but they’re bound to return soon. After all, the trail leads back to their home. So he can’t wait for Vex to recover. But…he also can’t carry her along with all their gear, not even at the best of times and certainly not now.

He cradles Bad News, running numb fingers along its familiar carved stock and up the smooth curve of the barrel. For all the destruction he’s loosed upon the world, he can’t help but feel pride for this, his finest creation, the product of seven straight months’ hard work. He could never craft its equal, can’t even imagine it. Not sure he even wants to try.

His eyes trail from it to Vex’ahlia; peaceful now, but still so close to death, her skin pale as the snow that is her bed.

No contest.

He abandons the gun alongside his bag, pausing only to rescue a few essentials – his tinker kit, some rations, a water skin – which he packs into Vex’ahlia’s smaller bag alongside the Raven’s Rest and other treasures he knows she holds dear.

With reluctance, he also leaves behind the heaviest of her custom arrows and Fenthras, which hurts almost more than Bad News. After all they went through, all _she_ went through in the Feywild, discarding the Vestige so easily feels like betrayal. But, then again…it’s not as if Mythcarver, or the Deathwalker’s Ward, or the Titanstone Knuckles are in any better shape. Perhaps others will stake their own claim, in time, and succeed where Vox Machina failed. The world can only hope. 

Before pain or temptation can change his mind, Percy gathers Vex onto his back. His ribs and heart ache, but the soft breath against his ear helps him take the first step.

“Get her out of here, de Rolo,” he mutters, and turns away from the path to stagger into the safety of darkness and trees.


	2. Chapter 2

The worst part of the betrayal was that Vox Machina never saw it coming. 

Umbrasyl was dead, had been dead for weeks. They’d survived Marquet and the Feywild, bested archfey and barbarians, and laid claim to over half the Vestiges of Divergence. And sure, there’d been some bumps along the way, frayed nerves and distractions and worse, but for all they’d received it seemed like…progress.

So when a trick of travel between the shifting planes delivered them once more to Wildmount and into the shadow of an ancient dragon’s lair, there had been, if not confidence, then at least cautious optimism. They even found allies in the hunters and miners of a mountain city, their numbers bolstered further by the half-orc refugees of a mercenary clan and the distant but remembered promises of the Ravenites.

It never occurred to them that the true danger might not come from above, that ice and fangs could be less of a threat than isolated civilians desperate to protect their own. Heroes as they were and confident as they’d grown, Vox Machina underestimated the creeping fear of ordinary people, trapped in a world that seemed to be ending around them.

And that was the fatal mistake.

* * *

Percy’s sense of time and distance are both thoroughly shot when he at last stumbles on the old trapper’s shack. Long abandoned, its roof partially collapsed and its single room half-flooded by melting snow, it’s perfect. Or, not. But it will have do, because Percy no longer feels anything except the weight on his back and the breath in his ear and if he’s going to pass out it needs to be somewhere Vex, at least, will be safe. 

He settles her in a dry patch under what’s left of the roof, laid out on her bedroll and rolled onto one side for comfort. Using the moon while he can, he strips off her armor and washes her wounds with the water skin before tearing his only clean shirt into bandages.

Once she’s wrapped and covered and tucked in under his coat, he lingers. He hurts. Magic drained and energy spent, there’s nothing left to him now but the bone-deep, soul-deep, all-encompassing ache.

And her. Vex’ahlia, sleeping fitfully under a fading moon. Bleeding and bruised. Weak, but alive.

And maybe…

Carefully, quietly, he removes her Earing of Whisper and pockets it before easing the Raven’s Slumber from around her neck. Trinket appears a moment later in a hiss of magic and light. He huffs and chuffs in a bewildered circle until, at last, he finds Vex. His next noise falls somewhere between a concerned whine and a vengeful growl.

Percy puts out a hand, making sure the bear registers his identity before digging his fingers into the thick fur. “Easy, Trinket.” He whispers. “She’ll be all right. She just needs rest.”

Trinket huffs at him, leaning into the scratch. His dark eyes are full of questions. Where are the others – Keyleth and Grog and Uncle Vax? Why is there no fire or magic house? Why _can’t_ he eat the people who hurt his Vex?

Percy manages a weak smile and tries to mimic the twins’ specific scratching style. Though surely, he must be getting it all wrong. “Keep her warm, won’t you?”

Trinket grumbles, but head-butts the human’s shoulder with palpable affection before lumbering to his usual spot at Vex’s side.

Percy leaves them to it, dragging his aching body to the cabin door and settling on the threshold to keep watch. A cloud swallows the moon, leaving the woods a near-total black. His eyes are useless, his senses dulled and aching. He should sleep. But he fears the dreams.

Instead, he trains his eyes on the shadowed trees and lifts a hand to cup his own Earring of Whisper. “Vox Machina…”

The words should be a comfort. Instead they burn, the way “Whitestone” used to burn, the gnawing ache of loss in a throat rubbed raw.

He shudders – from the cold, his mind insists – and swallows before starting again.

“Keyleth…Scanlan, Grog. Vax. If you can hear this…if _anyone_ can hear this…please respond.”

He holds his breath.

…

…

Nothing. And releasing his air feels like being stabbed in the side.

He bites his lip, smothering any groans or yelps to a pained hiss. A grunt echoes from across the room as Trinket lifts his head in concern. Percy waves him off, arms wrapped tight to hold his ribs together. It’ll do for the night. The bear – too smart for his own good – grumbles again, but nonetheless returns his head to Vex’s shoulder.

Percy leans into the doorjamb and steadies his breathing to slow, soft puffs. Once the pain retreats, he returns the hand to his ear. Dead silence. Not even a hiss of magic or breath. Still. He clings to hope.

And tries again.

* * *

The dragon would come, alone and at sundown. That’s what they’d been told.

They set their trap at valley’s edge, snipers on the high ground and melee down below surrounding a trap of wrenches, chains, and gears designed by Percy. There were healers standing by and mages at the ready and, of course, Vox Machina, each in their places and surrounded by those they sought to set free.

By the time they realized the truth, it was too late: the sun began to set, the shadows stretched long and the sky stayed absent of dragons even as the miners and hunters and mercenaries crept ever closer, pinning the outsiders into their posts. All of Vox Machina took notice in time, but it was Keyleth who cried out the warning and unknowingly signaled the end.

“It’s a trap!”

Her words cut into a scream as arrows pierced her from a dozen different sides. Arms and shoulders. Neck. Stomach. Back. Chest. All blossomed ruby-red, soaking her armor, her feet and her hair before she could even imagine her first Wild Shape. The staff slipped from her fingers. Her circlet sank to the ground.

She fell.

All horrified shouts of the druid’s name were lost to a battle cry that poured from mercenaries, hunters, and miners alike. They turned against Vox Machina en masse, arrows flying and blades lifted high.

Grog roared, growing Titan-sized out of the crowd. He flung humans and half-orcs out of his path to reach Keyleth, only to be stopped dead when the very chains they’d designed for the dragon wrapped tight around his shoulders, waist, body, and neck. The wrenches held fast and then _pulled_ , dragging him back. He fought. He frothed. He raged. And they kept coming.

Percy, meanwhile, dashed across the high ground with all the speed he could muster, dodging arrows and bolts and pausing only to pick off snipers and wrench-workers with Bad News. He knew by his second or third stop that it was no use. Even Vox Machina couldn’t fight an entire city.

A far too close roar yanked his attention to a charging, towering mass of brown fur. The seconds it took him to recognize it as not-Trinket were all that the war-trained dire bear needed to catch and body-slam him into a boulder. The combined blow broke at least three ribs. Another two joined the count when the beast slammed in a second time, pinning him to the rocks beneath a massive paw.

Percy fumbled for Retort, even as the massive claws tore his armor, drawing blood and a scream. The bear bore down, its teeth inches from his skull. It hot breath smelled of rotting meat.

And then and arrow -- an _exploding_ arrow – sank into its eye. The blast that followed covered Percy in blood, brain, and gore.

His ears hadn’t quite stopped ringing by the time Vex’ahlia caught up with Fenthras in hand. She dragged Percy around by the shoulder, said something, then seemed to realize that he couldn’t hear and dropped to muttering instead. Cool, green natural magic flickered between his skin and her fingers. It knit together his bleeding wounds and cleared the ringing from his ears.

“All right, darling?”

He wasn’t completely. He could feel it in the broken ribs. But they couldn’t afford to waste more magic on him, not when Keyleth could be dying and Grog was surrounded and Scanlan…

A horrible, static-laden cry sounded through the Earring, followed by a final gurgling gasp. Percy and Vex shot back to the edge of the path, peering upon the battle below in time to watch a massive war hammer lift off the crumpled, bloody, too-small form of their bard. Half-hidden among the bodies – there were so many bodies now – Grog lay face-down and shrinking. Chains spread around him like a spider’s web, reaching almost to Keyleth and her trampled staff.

Only Vax remained fighting, dragged from his shadows, a flurry of feathers and blood in the mob. His magic wings lay in tatters, unable to lift him from the ground. Daggers flashed, bodies piled, and still he was surrounded.

Two arrows and a gunshot gave him some breathing room, long enough to look around and up to find the pair on the high ground. He lifted a hand to his earring. Percy knew his conclusion before he spoke.

“We’re routed. You need to run.”

“ _What?_ Brother!”

“You can still make it.” Vax spun, catching two oncoming assailants with his daggers before they reached striking range. The miners slumped, offering enough distraction for him to roll behind a fallen cart. “Go, now!”

Vex grit her teeth. Fenthras crackled as she pulled it taut. Its charge raised the hairs on Percy’s neck. “We are not leaving you!”

Vax’s gaze trailed to Keyleth in her spreading pool of blood.

“Percy, covering fire. We’ll clear a path to Keyleth and then…”

“Vex.” Somehow, Vax kept his voice horribly, terribly calm. She was too far to see, but Percy’s scope picked out every fragment of sorrow, desperation and – horribly – reassignment. “Please. You have to live. For our sake.”

Vex’ahlia choked on a sob. Those among the hunters who hadn’t stopped to tend their own wounded converged on the path to their perch. They’d be on them in minutes. There was no time.

Percy lowered Bad News, but not before catching a final gut-wrenching glimpse: a half-orc with a spear bearing down on Vax’ildan from behind.

“Vax…!”

“Get her _out_ of here, de Rolo!”

The spear struck him between the wings. Its head emerged from his chest in a spray of awful red that gleamed fire-bright. He choked, then shuddered and went slack as the half-orc lifted him bodily from the ground.

Vex’ahlia screamed. Her shot, pure lightning, caught her brother’s killer between the eyes. She fired again and again, and Percy knew she’d keep firing, so he did the only thing he could. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her back just as another three arrows struck the spot where they’d stood.

She fought him, of course she did. Anything to reach her brother. But Percy had the advantage in both height and strength. He lifted her off her feet, flung her past the tree line, and drew Retort long enough to pick off the first wave of pursuers with three quick shots.

“Run!” he gasped, which wasn’t enough. But when he fled, so did she. They ran, together, into the woods and into his nightmare, as the sky turned red to match the horrible, bloody battle below.

* * *

 

Hours into what feels like the longest, darkest night of all time, Vex’ahlia finally wakes.

She comes to with a short gasp, which crumbles into dry coughs and muffled, involuntary cries of pain. Trinket’s awake in the next second, nosing her cheek and neck as he whines in concern.

Percy kneels beside them, pours water into a shallow mess kit bowl and gently shoos the bear back a few necessary inches. “Easy now,” he tells Vex, bringing the water to her lip. “Don’t roll over yet. Just drink.”

And she does, first in small sips and then thankful gulps as the coughing recedes.  She pulls herself up onto one arm to finish off the bowl, taking the dish from his hand as she swallows the last drops.

“Thank you, dar—” The last word sticks in her still-dry throat and she must cough to dislodge it, which once more jars the arrow wounds on her back. She gives another wince before pressing her palms against her bound chest.

A brief, shimmering starlight green heals what bandages alone could not and offers just enough light for Percy to see the pain slide off Vex’ahlia’s face. Relief takes its place before the magic fades. She sits up and rolls her shoulders. “ _Gracious_ , but that was… _fuck_.”

Despite everything, that draws an appreciative chuckle out of Percy. For Vex’ahlia to remain Vex’ahlia even after all they’ve lost…it’s nearly a relief.

She bats her eyelashes at him – the barest movement now blaring to him after hours of staring into still trees – and works through a series of stretches to be sure the muscles have all settled properly despite the wounds. “How long was I out?”

“A few hours.”

“Well. Aren’t I the slugabug.”

None of the groans her stretching bring out seem to be in pain, so Percy feels comfortable setting aside the last of his makeshift medicinals and offering her travel rations. Vex splits the jerky with Trinket and gives her bear’s haunch a reassuring pat before tearing into her half in a manner that betrays her own hunger.

“So?” she asks once she’s finished, one eyebrow quirked as though waiting to be let in on a joke. “Why are we in the dark? And where are the others?”

Percy swallows, words smothered under the weight of truth. The coward in him wants to run, to make excuses or a plausible lie and hold off reality for as long as possible. If they can just stay in this moment, pretend for a little longer, then maybe...

“Percival.” Vex leans towards him, moving close enough now that he can pick her features out of the dark, especially those bright eyes and the curve of her smile. “You’re in your own head again, darling. Come now. Where’s my brother got to?”

“…Do you not remember?”

Vex hums. “Last I remember, we were getting ready to fight that dragon and...”

She trails off, eyes sliding away from him and out-of-focus as she lowers the last bit of dried meat from her lip. Trinket snuffles at her hand and she lets him have it without even complaining when he licks her palm.

“No. I must be mistaken. That was only a dream.”

She forces a chuckle, which fades to a silence so tense that it’s strangling. Percy lowers his gaze and focuses on breathing. Calm. Measured. Calm. 

All remnants of her smile slips from Vex's face, replaced with growing horror.  "Percy. Tell me it was just a bad dream.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Trinket whines. Vex’ahlia rocks against him, fingers grasping the thick fur. Denial fades to horror fades to sorrow and grief, and though Percy cannot see her expressions he hears the shift in her breath, which runs ragged before breaking into barren sobs.

“No. No, it can’t be. It can’t.” She turns away, smothering a sob in the bear’s ruff. “This can’t be happening.”

Hearing her cry is almost worse than the memories flickering in the back of his eyes. Percy reaches out, wanting nothing more in that instant but to gather her up and maybe, just for a moment, make something go right. “Vex…”

She slaps him.

Perhaps she'd aimed for his hands. Perhaps not. It catches his cheek either way, jarring his head and skewing his glasses.

The moon chooses that second to peer from the clouds, illuminating her harsh snarl and furious glare. There’s disgust there now, and anger, so much like her brother. Like she blames Percy for…what? Surviving? Abandoning their family? Designing the trap? Keeping her here, rather than letting her die with Vax’ildan?

It doesn’t matter. He deserves it all.

The moment and moonlight soon pass, returning them to the safety of shadows and shields. Percy adjusts his glasses as settles again behind that familiar, indifferent mask.

“You should rest,” he says, leaving the rations and water skin at her side. “You’ll need your strength.”

Vex watches him rise and return to the door, waiting until he’s settled to turn her head away and burying her face into Trinket. Her sobs travel despite the thick fur. Percy aches, but keeps vigil, elbow pressed to his aching side and ears open for any Whisper that might catch his ear.

The night, cold and dark, stretches on.

They mourn alone.


End file.
